


(In)Dominable Focus

by fenkyuubi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love, Orgasm, Orgasm Denial, Rutting, Sex, Sexual Solas (Dragon Age), Sexy Solas (Dragon Age), Smut, Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic, Solas Smut Saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenkyuubi/pseuds/fenkyuubi
Summary: The Herald of Andraste, Clan Lavellan’s Pride, the Leader of the Inquisition… is inordinately drunk.[I am a weak, weak woman and skipped to the smutty parts of my story inAnother World.  First time delving into any type of erotica, so pointers and input is immensely appreciated and loved. Stay safe, Solavellans! Furthermore, thank you Dea for being the biggest sweetheart and best person to bump smut ideas off :)]
Relationships: Dalish (Dragon Age: Inquisition)/Solas, Female Inquisitor & Solas, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Lavellan & Solas, Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Solas turns the page and gives a hum of approval. Sister Laudine’s Manual on Marital Instruction, it seems, wasn’t a terrible suggestion after all. He makes a mental note to thank Cassandra for her wise recommendation. 

He eyes the diagram of two entwined lovers with almost apathetic interest, thumb hooked on the jut of his lower lip. The Sister’s footnote, detailing her own familiarity with the effectiveness of the position, ignites a measured chuckle in his throat. As he unfolds his legs and reclines into his chair, Solas realises—with no deficit of surprise—that he’s sporting a rather sad erection. Under the folds of his tunic, it is barely noticeable, but Solas is suddenly profusely aware of the gentle pressure the confines of his trouser provides. 

_Really?_ He arches a brow and rests the book on the edge of the table. _What a millennia of celibacy will do to a man,_ he muses and turns another page.  
  
The doors of the Great Hall rumbles on its iron hinges. The sound does not phase him. He looks up from the yellow parchment to observe the candle on his desk. Wax frowns over the silver saucer, seeping into the cracks and imperfections of the wood. The flame is dim, barely enough to illuminate the wooden banisters that mark the second floor of the rotunda. 

He’s been reading longer than anticipated—long enough for the denizens of Skyhold to be withdrawing from their night of Wicked Grace at Herald’s Rest. Solas rubs the sleep from his eyes and considers the benefits of retiring to bed himself.  
  
_After one more chapter._

Solas doesn’t see her slip through the open door. It’s only when it squeaks shut does he glance up from his book, from the small print that has commanded his focus for the better part of an evening. 

“Inquisitor?”  
  
Rosa intimates with a strained giggle that it is, in fact, her. Bowed over, legs cobbled at the knees, her hands search the walls for purchase, steadying her swaying hips and lanky gestures. Solas holds his breath as she begins a steady strut towards his desk. It is no small feat that she manages the task without falling. 

The Herald of Andraste, Clan Lavellan’s Pride, the Leader of the Inquisition… is inordinately drunk. 

Solas closes the volume and slides it unhurriedly across the desk, with as much nonchalance he can muster. 

“Drinking with Iron Bull again?” he questions, feigning ignorance.

She shakes her head. Damp tendrils of hair collect around the curve of her jaw, sticking to the contours of her cheeks, nose, and forehead. From her unbuttoned shirt down to her crumpled pants that hang below the jut of her hips, the Inquisitor is disheveled, unmade, and unashamedly raw. The sight is fitting, cohesive—utterly aligned with her character, the purity of her conviction, her inability to be anything _but_ what she is. There is no mask, no subterfuge, no pretext—she approaches a world founded on duplicity with candor, not pretense; love with honesty, not posturing. 

Rosa fingers the wood of his desk as she circles to his side, her heavy-lidded eyes concealed behind a line of lashes. “It’s Wicked Grace night. You should have come.” 

He mouths an ‘oh’ of dismay. “Apologies, Inquisitor. It must have slipped my mind. I’ve been… preoccupied.”

Since their last ‘conversation’, Solas has been diligent in avoiding an audience with her. Skirting war meetings, evading her at camp, diving into meaningless conversations with Varric over the place of future perfect continuous tense in modern literature—Solas has exercised any and every method to curtail their private interactions. Given the team’s proclivity for alcohol during ‘game night’, he was confident his evening read would proceed uninterrupted. 

“They’re still playing,” she adds quietly, quads colliding with a gentle thud on the arm of his chair. 

“You decided to retire early?”  
  
Her features fall.  
  
_No, not decided. Forced._

Solas laughs softly, delighting in her pursed lips and flushed face, the way her cheeks puff in ire. “Wicked Grace evokes the art of deception, Lethallan. It is not in your nature; everyone in that room is a much better liar than you are.”

She pins him with her muddled stare. “And what about you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“Is it in your nature?”  
  
He smiles, ignoring the uptick of his pulse. “When necessary.”

With a nod of approval, she lowers her gaze. They linger on the heavy tome in front of him. Her purr of recognition fills him with dread. “Sister Laudine’s Manual on Marital Instruction?” she reads, small white teeth bared in a grin. “You surprise me, Solas.”  
  
“A recommendation from Seeker Pentaghast,” he says, failing to erase the nervous vibrato from his voice. “A dull read—”  
  
Rosa leans across the chair, her body swimming into view like a ship berthing into harbor. She flips open the book, exposing a collection of women and men in several stages of undress. She turns to him expectantly, her expression smug. “A dull read?”  
  
“I hadn’t gotten that far.”

When her hand brushes against his trousers, Solas attributes it to clumsiness, her fingers against his inseam a product of inebriety. When her palm slides over the faint bulge of his cock, the elf has run out of excuses for her wandering grasp. 

“It couldn’t have been that bad, _hahren_ , if _this_ is anything to go by.”

“Inquisitor—” Words falter as her legs part, one knee positioned beside his thigh. She steadies herself on his arms while he grips the chair, white-knuckled and as motionless as some marble carving of a long-dead king. She mounts him with careful precision. 

Rosa doesn't give him time to formulate a defense, let alone say them. She presses her lips urgently against his, body folding against the curves of his own. He can taste the whiskey on her breath; the robust tang of her desire; the subtle note of her desperation. 

Hands glide along her waist. As her hips begin to roll, slow, teasingly against him, he holds her steady and pulls away.  
  
“Inquisitor,” he growls, hoping the title sparks some memory of who she is and what she is doing. He searches her face for some semblance of control, any hint of reservation in those narrowed eyes and parted lips. “We can’t.”  
  
“Why?” Her muscles tense under his fingers, itching to move, to stir, to grind. 

“For starters, you’ve probably drunk enough to make a Chantry priest blush.”

Her lips curl into a scowl. Hips lift, one body becomes two—hers and his. The sudden absence of pressure brings a furrow to his brow, elicits a quiet hiss from his lips. “You don’t want to?” 

“I never said that.” 

“Good.” Rosa presses against him more urgently than before, the makings of a moan smothered between clenched teeth as she rocks against his length in a gentle rhythm. 

_Up, down, up, down._

Her arms wander from the chair to his chest, grasping at the loose fabric of tunic and the wolf mandible around his neck. She pulls at it, luring his face towards her to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, his nose, his cheek, a trail that guides her to the blade of his ear.  
  
“Please,” she murmurs. “Please, vhenan.”

It’s his undoing, the final cut that unravels the threads of his restraint. He’s not strong enough to deny her, to do what must be done—should be done. He can’t—not when she begs, breath hot, sweet, wanton against his flesh. 

Hips rise, meeting her downward stroke. The motion startles her, sapping the strength from her arms, wrecking her careful tempo.

_Down, down, up, down, down, up._

When she buckles, he laughs, and when a moan hitches in her chest, he laces his fingers through her hair and pulls, exposing the hollows of her throat to his lips. 

“Quiet, vhenan,” Solas whispers into her collarbone, tongue lapping at the thin sheen of salt, sweat, and smoke that collects on her skin. “You don’t want to wake the birds.” 

He holds her there and dictates the rhythm, rutting against her trembling thighs, silencing her gasps with his mouth. Solas can’t help but smile at her sensitivity, at the way her body shudders with each thrust. She responds to so little with so much, jerking against him when he sucks the tender spot beneath her jaw, sighing as he paws the supple arc of her backside. 

Solas knows she is getting close—can feel it in her quivering legs, in the harsh cadence of her voice, in the way her face contorts in concentration. Her unraveling is beautiful—captivating. Solas loses himself in her expression, in the crease above her brows, in the lips that part, wider and wider and wider. As she nears her climax, Solas slips a hand inside her shirt, exploring the scalding heat of her body for the first time. Her breasts heave against his cupping palm, shuddering with the force of her movements. 

_Down, up, down, up, up._

She is begging for more, for less, in Elvish, Tevene, and everything in between; whispers muffled by the wrist she bites. It takes all of his energy not to cum when she does; watching her eyes darken and lose focus, her head lolling between her shoulders, hand white around the frame of the chair. 

Rosa slumps into his chest and rests her head between the crook in his neck. Solas listens to the Inquisitor’s uneven breaths, and strokes her tangled hair, her back. He shifts. There’s a dull ache in his lower spine, the early throbbing of a bruise along his pelvis. However, these hurts are nothing compared to the gnawing pain at the base of his cock, the once-sad erection that strains against his trousers, thirsting for the source of the wet heat that pools around his smallclothes.  
  
“Do you feel better, vhenan?” he asks, fingers snagging on the knots in her hair. When she doesn’t reply, Solas gives her a gentle nudge. It is only when the rush of blood in his ears dies down does he finally hear the muted rasp of her snores.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, tasty tasty morning Solas! Also, mention of Andruil from Fen'Harel and the Tree.

Rosa groans and sinks her face into the side of her pillow. With a low whine, she begs the Creators for five more minutes of sleep, five more minutes without the constant throbbing in the back of her skull and behind her eyes. She peers out into the darkened room. It’s morning, judging by the chorus of shouts and marching orders that drift up from the courtyard. Shrugging the fur throw over her shoulders, she allows her eyes to flutter shut, content with the knowledge she has nothing on her agenda for the day—

“Fenedhis!” The Inquisitor shoots up and kicks weakly at the blanket, entangling her legs further.  
  
Solas, startled and confused, looks over from his chair in the corner of the room. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

If her throat wasn’t as dry as the Hissing Wastes, she might have screamed from shock. “Solas?” 

He gives her a curt once over and tips his chin. “Your breasts are showing, Inquisitor.” He turns his head and smirks. 

_June’s cock_ , she thinks, glancing down at her bare chest, at nipples hard from the cold. _Naked as the day I was whelped._ She scrambles to cover herself. 

Solas can’t help but laugh at her foolishness. “I think we are past false modesty, don’t you?” he says, folding his hands neatly over his trousers. The elf gestures to the mug beside her. “Drink.” 

Rosa kneads her head and reaches for the water on her bedside table. It falls uncomfortably into her empty stomach, hitting her core in a way that makes her weak with nausea. The drink’s bitter aftertaste is unexpected. “This tastes funny.” 

“I took the liberty of adding some Royal Elfroot essence to help with your hangover.”

“Thank you.” She scans the floor for her clothes.

Solas has an answer for that as well and points towards her hamper. “They’ll need washing.” 

To her ever mounting surprise, Rosa realizes her companion is shirtless, too. The sight of his pale skin ribbed with taut muscles quickens her pulse. 

Solas catches her gawking and humors her with a chuckle. “You seem unsettled.” 

“Did you… undress me?” 

He hums in response. “You dribbled on yourself, and I thought you might be more comfortable sleeping without clothes covered in alcohol.” 

A blush crawls over her cheeks. “And _your_ shirt?” 

His eyes twinkle in amusement. “You _also_ dribbled on me.” When she hides her face with embarrassment, he soothes her with a smile. “I removed it because carrying you here was quite taxing, and the proposition of sitting in sweaty tunic all night was less than desirable.” 

“You carried me here?” 

His brow arches. “You don’t remember much, do you?” 

Rosa takes a moment to relive the events of last night. Her thoughts are fragmented, blurred, with no benchmarks of time. She remembers Dorian’s winning hand; Josephine’s pile of silver coins; Leliana’s wolf-whistle as Cullen shrugs another piece of armor to the floor. And hunger, a yawning void of want—and—

She looks away to disguise her blush. 

_No, that’s a dream, surely._

“It wasn’t a dream,” he supplements, reading her like an open book. He rises from the chair to join her by the bed. As he nears, her handiwork becomes clear: the dark bruises on his neck, the tell tale scratches across his chest. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“No, not quite. You see, in my day, it was considered bad _taste_ to sleep with women who are unconscious, Inquisitor.” 

Rosa is too stunned to respond. Images from last night slither into her mind, memories of passion, of sloppy kisses, and begging—o _h Gods, did she beg_. The Inquisitor shields her mouth with a hand, wishing the Breach would swallow her whole. 

“I am so sorry for the trouble, Solas,” she murmurs. She hooks her legs over the side of the bed, taking the fur throw with her. “I know this looks like I’m running away—“

“You are.”

“—but I’m meant to meet Cassandra to talk about our siege at Adamant. Can we discuss _this_ later?” 

Solas cocks his head and observes her in silence. There’s something jarring about his expression, his heavy-lidded eyes and slightly parted lips that simper as she shrinks away. There’s a hunger there, a need that ignites her own.

He leans forward, hands appearing from behind his back to grasp her shoulders. “No,” he says simply, stopping inches from her face. His eyes are tired and dark around the corners. Rose wonders briefly whether he watched her from that chair all night. 

There’s a gentle guiding pressure on her shoulder. Rosa yields to the direction, sliding back down the bed. Solas follows, arms straight and taut against her body. She’s trapped, surrounded by him, by hands that splay around her head, knees against her thighs. He continues to watch her, slate eyes hooded, intentions masked. 

“You’re so quiet, Inquisitor,” he says, lips twerking into a smile. 

She cannot hold his gaze, cannot challenge his cool demeanor, and looks away, hoping to find some courage in her embellished wood headboard. “Solas, I can’t do this right now.” 

“That’s a shame,” he murmurs, breath pooling deliciously around her neck, tickling the blade of her ear. “You were so eager last night. I particularly enjoyed the begging.” 

Embarrassment mingles with adrenaline and morphs into ire. When she turns her head to spit a few Dalish curses, he captures her lips and swaddles her complaints, body pinning her to the bed. 

The effect he has is immediate. She has chased him for so long—craved this since their stolen kiss at Haven. There is no name for the relief that blossoms in her chest, the sudden outpouring of desire that has festered in her heart, gated behind decorum, behind “must-do’s” and chaste choices. Yet, for all her wistful thinking and sordid daydreams, Rosa did not envision Solas to be like this; with deft hands and impassioned kisses. Solas who is wise, kind, thoughtful, who councils her with lyrical verses and sweet stories that ignite her imagination. Solas who nurses her when sick, that reprimands her when angry. Solas—

She moans as his palm presses against her skin and follows the sharp curve of her waist to her hips. Fingers, tight around his upper arms, flex with desire. 

“ _Hamina_ ,” he purrs, lips drawn across the corner of her mouth past the tendons of her neck to her collarbone, leaving a trail of soft kisses in their wake. When he slips the throw from her body and slowly—so slowly—exposes her to the cold, Rosa shudders with need. He leaves her there, exposed, vulnerable, drinking in the sight of her with no regard for her flushed face and quiet indignation. 

“Solas.”

“Hmm?” His voice is hoarse, distant. Eyes flutter upwards, questioning her with a look. 

She doesn’t know what to say—what to ask. He is painfully in control of his faculties; unrushed, unhurried while she squirms, blushes, and writhes under him in some poor attempt to generate friction. It’s the first time she feels the difference in their years so keenly.

 _Please touch me_ , she thinks. Her lips give shape to nascent words, but fails. They break in an unintelligible groan against the back of her teeth, swallowed by pride and inexperience. She doesn’t know what she wants, let alone how to ask for it. 

“Fen garem mar av?”

Fingers shift, gliding from the base of her sternum down to her navel before stopping. She broadcasts her disappointment with a whine.  
  
“Vher,” she corrects. “ _Cat_ got your tongue.”

“I see.”

Solas is enjoying this. Her distress. Her willingness. Her utter submission—body and soul. It’s written across his sharp features and easy smirk, in eyes that gleam with the knowledge that she is unmade by the smallest ministrations. 

He tuts disapprovingly when she scowls, rolling over her body to rest alongside her, eyes never leaving the arc of her breast, watching as they rise and fall with each shallow breath. Solas returns to the top of her thigh, rubbing the muscles of her legs with slow circles. Occasionally, he inches higher, allowing one wayward digit to stray within a hair’s breadth of her cunt. When she starts furling her hips towards him, he stops.  
  
“Fenedhis, Solas,” she growls, balled fists tense around the covers.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You are cruel.”  
  
Solas’ rumble of laughter echoes off the walls. He nuzzles her neck. “My nature is sometimes cruel.”

Rosa is too preoccupied with his sudden bite to notice the absence of his hand and its rapid reappearance on her mound. He forces the heel against her clit, fingers slipping against her folds, parting her with ease. It’s too much—so much—all at once, a release she doesn’t expect.

Solas smiles, lips poised over pale skin that flushes an angry red. “So eager, vhenan,” he coos. 

She can hear how wet she is, feel how easily his fingers glide along her slit. But she doesn’t care. Modesty gives way to desire, hesitation to passion. “Please,” she gasps, surprised by her tone, the quiver in her voice, the desperation in her timbre. 

“Please, what?” 

“Inside.” 

There’s a knock on the door. Rosa scrambles onto her forearms, head craned towards the banister that shields the descent of stairs from view. 

“Inquisitor?” _It’s Cassandra._

“I—I am here.” Rosa bites the inside of her cheek, ignoring the beads of sweat that curl down her neck and skid across her breasts. 

“We were _meant_ to have a meeting. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Your page said you haven’t left your room.” 

“I’m sorry Cassandra, I’m feeling terribly ill.”

“Your merry _will_?”

“Terribly. Ill," she repeats. 

Cassandra gives a sigh of exasperation. “I’m coming in. I can barely hear you.” The door squeaks open. The Seeker’s tall shadow crawls across the walls. 

“I—I am not decent,” Rosa warns, heart lurching in her chest. 

“I am not coming up, I want to hear you better.” The shadow gives a tired shrug. “I can continue the strategy with Cullen in the meantime, however, I wanted to get your approval on a few items. Firstly, how many troops do you want to send? Leliana thinks we should take every able bodied person, but that exposes Skyhold to attack.” 

“Uhh,” Rosa tries to collect her thoughts. “3000?” 

“Understood. There’s also the issue of catapults. Cullen is adamant we take as many as we can to siege the stronghold—“

Solas shushes her, pressing his lips against the tip of her ear. Rosa looks round in confusion, long enough to catch his wolfish grin. Two fingers slither inside, burrowing their way to her core. It takes all of her energy to stay quiet, to suppress the urge to cry out. 

“—are you in agreement?” 

“Fuck _yes._ ” 

She can sense her adviser’s confusion. 

“Very well,” she hums, armored boots clanging against the floor. Cassandra tumbles into another series of questions Rosa doesn’t hear. The Inquisitor tries to still her lover’s movements, hand clasped around his wrist in warning. Solas doesn’t stop—doesn't care to—and curls his fingers against the upper walls of her cunt. Again. And again. And again. 

“Are you going to cum while the Seeker is here?” he asks. Mock disapproval lines his low voice. “How improper.”

“I—I think I’m going to pass out,” she pants. Rosa attempts to close her legs, but Solas pries them open with ease. A low moan escapes her. 

Cassandra stops her monologue and takes another step forward. “Are you alright, Inquisitor? Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine. Just _very_ hungover.” 

“I understand. Commander Cullen has been an alarming shade of green all morning. Shall we continue this later?” 

“Please,” she says, her words for Solas as much as the Seeker. When Cassandra closes the door behind her, Rosa is no longer silent, her moans no longer masked. She is crying, whimpering, pleading, hips grinding against his hand as she homes in on her release, on the burgeoning heat that builds in the base of her gut like a flower in bloom. 

Solas is—finally—happy to oblige, guiding her orgasm with a heavy thumb against her clit. Rosa loses all sense of self, all distinction of feeling. She does not know where Solas ends and she begins. Wretched words and Elvish curses pour from her lips; rushed, feverish, breathless whispers muffled against the covers she yanks across her mouth. 

The aftermath leaves her crippled, weak. Rosa can barely carry the head on her shoulders, or hold her torso upright on her arms. 

With a sigh of contentment, Solas extracts his fingers. It is enough to make her shudder with pleasure that borders on pain. “Turn over,” he orders. The drawstring of his trousers rasp as they’re undone. “I’m not finished with you yet, vhenan.” 

* * *

It’s dark. Rosa wonders what time it is, but is soothed by the liberating notion that she doesn’t really care at all. She adjusts her head on his shoulders and listens to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Fingers trace lazy patterns across his abdomen, following the lines of his muscles down to the pointed peak of his hip bones. 

Rosa _aches_. Her insides feel twisted, raw, inflamed, exhausted. She delights in the sensation, the way her clit throbs as she hooks a leg over his, in the small bites around her breasts that chart a path towards her neck. 

“Your thoughts are very loud,” Solas murmurs.

Her fingers stop and retreat to his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“There are worse ways to wake up.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “Royal for your thoughts?” 

Rosa bites her lip. “How _did_ you learn how to do all _this_?” 

“This?” 

“Tel’enathe,” she warns.  
  
Solas is quiet for a long moment, fingers idle on her arm. “I—”

“And please don’t tell me this is some ancient wisdom you learnt in the Fade.”  
  
He gives an uneasy chuckle. Whether from embarrassment or because she foiled his plan, she cannot say. “No. I had a rather robust education. With a girl.”

“Does the girl have a name?”  
  
“Andruil.”  
  
She snorts. “Did you serve in her bed for a year and a day?”  
  
“Longer, actually.”  
  
“Well, praise Andruil for her wise teachings,” she giggles, pressing her lips against his ribs.  
  
“I can show you more, if you’d like?”  
  
“Hmm?”

Solas clarifies his words with a gesture, rolling over the Inquisitor with a hungry purr. 

Rosa cackles with childlike glee as he buries his face into her neck. “For my education then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenedhis - curse  
> Hamina - relax  
> Fen garem mar av - wolf got your tongue?  
> Vher - cat  
> Tel’enathe - don't start

**Author's Note:**

> Hahren - 'elder'


End file.
